Interception
by Lemon Icee
Summary: A year after inception the team is scattered, and Saito mysteriously commits suicide by jumping off his office building. The team must reform to find out the secrets of Saito's death and stop his company from destroying them, the main suspects.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This is my first multi-chapter Inception fic, and I hope you enjoy it! Basically after seeing the movie it haunted me that Cobb had pretty much placed the exact same idea into Saito that he did into Mal, so I decided to write this. Obviously Inception doesn't belong to me, because it's too fucking awesome to belong to anyone but Christopher Nolan.

* * *

Rain drummed on the window of the small hotel room Arthur had reserved in Toronto, almost drowning out the low murmurs of the evening news on the television. Ariadne was half-listening to the broadcast while flipping through her sketchbook, which at one time had been filled with various building and structure designs but was now only used to craft new mazes within dreamscapes. Arthur was in the shower after a day of reconnaissance. Their mark was the mistress of a Detroit politician and the job was fairly straightforward: find out where to get a hold of concrete proof of the politician's affair so as to destroy his campaign. The mark herself, according to Arthur at least, was a dumb bimbo whose brain would be pretty easy to infiltrate. The way he had said it pleased Ariadne in a kind of vain and petty way she wasn't used to.

Ariadne was wearing her pajamas and was about to turn off the television when the newscaster caught her attention. Frowning, crawling to the edge of the bed to hear better (she hadn't thought to turn up the volume), Ariadne absorbed one of the minor stories in business news with rapt attention.

"In Tokyo today, pedestrians were shocked to see the body of a man fall from a fifty story building," the reporter announced. "It was discovered soon after that the man was none other than a Mr. Saito, from the energy mega corporation Renu Inc. No word from authorities on the circumstances of Mr. Saito's death, although it has been assumed to be suicide. The death of Renu Inc's CEO is expected to cause a profound drop in the company's stocks tomorrow morning. Mr. Saito was 43 years old."

Ariadne stared at the television, unable to process the information it had just fed her. Arthur walked out from the shower to see his partner staring intently, almost furiously at a commercial for ShamWow!

"I guess I know what to get you for your birthday…" he said, sitting down next to her and raising an eyebrow.

Ariadne blinked and swiveled herself around to face Arthur, unsmiling.

"Saito's dead," she said, her inflection almost questioning.

"What? Saito from the inception job?" Arthur asked, as if they knew any other. She nodded. He ran a hand through his still wet hair, frowning.

"Jesus," he glanced at the television which was distracting him. With a swift motion he turned it off before looking at Ariadne again. "What happened?"

"They think it was suicide," she said, but even as she said it she knew he wouldn't understand the gravity of that fact. Arthur's relationship with Cobb had been one of detached affection; Arthur never knew who Cobb had first planted an idea in, and Ariadne had never told him out of respect for her former boss. But her mind was reeling with a sickening thought: that Saito had been driven mad by the parasitic idea that his world wasn't real, that death was the only escape.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** I love Eames. The end.

* * *

Eames glanced over at the man sitting next to him, trying to read his expression. The man was grimy and was missing at least half his teeth, which he proudly displayed in a leering grin. Either his poker face was atrocious or even better than Eames', and as the thief highly doubted the latter option could ever be true, he folded.

"Ah ah, you can't quit now Eames," the dirty man said, trying to disguise his grin. "Not when the pot is finally filling up."

"As enticing as that sounds Horace I'd rather like to have some cash left for the week, I haven't grown partial to sleeping on park benches." Eames nervously rubbed two of his remaining chips together (they represented a tragically high percentage of his total funds).

"Three kings!" Horace yelled triumphantly, and the rest of the table groaned as their chips were raked away from them.

The night ended fairly disastrously, and Eames found himself standing outside the dingy Johannesburg café with about $7 to his name. It was raining and he had no place to stay that night, and even as a bolt of lightning flashed across the smoggy sky his stomach growled like thunder. He decided that the best use of his remaining money was dinner, so reluctantly he made his way back inside and ordered a sandwich.

As he sat eating at the bar, his back hunched, trying to ignore the sounds of the more successful gamblers still playing behind him, a man planted himself on the seat adjacent.

"I saw you at the table," the man said, his voice low and scratchy. Eames was in no mood for conversation with strangers, especially drunk ones, and he merely grunted in reply.

"You seem to be down on your luck," the man's accent was hard to distinguish, but in businesses such as this particular café, one found all kinds. "What would you say if I told you I could turn it around?"

Eames rolled his eyes.

"Look mate, I'm trying to finish my supper and get the hell out of this city, and I'm really not up for guessing games at the moment."

"This information's good," the man said brashly, leaning even closer towards Eames who was stubbornly trying to ignore him. "I seen you around here, I know what kinds of things you do. I heard about a job, and the pay is insane."

Eames finally looked at the man, while wiping his mouth with a napkin. The stranger was young and wiry with stringy black hair and wide, staring eyes. He looked like he might have been eastern European.

"What's the job?" Eames asked.

"Extraction," the man said eagerly. "I know you done it, and I want in. I tell you the details if you promise me a place on the team."

Eames shook his head. "I'm not even saying I'd take the job. And if the pay is as good as you say it is, there won't be any room for idiots who don't know what they're doing. Where'd you find out about this anyway?"

The man squirmed with a nervous excitement he never seemed to lose. "I find these things out, it's what I do. But when I tell you the reward you not gonna be able to say no." He leaned in even closer, making his eyes even wider, both feats Eames had assumed were impossible. "3 million American dollars." Eames's jaw literally dropped at the staggering number.

"Alright," he said slowly, recovering from shock. "I'll let you on the team. Now what's this job?"

The man looked positively ecstatic.

"It's for some giant company, huge, you know. Their boss just died and they wanta investigate, only the boss was doing some business with some shady characters and the company thinks it was them who killed him. So they need extractors to go into one of the guys they suspect's dream and find out if he did it."

"Sounds simple enough," Eames said "Why's the pay so high?"

The man shrugged. "I don't ask questions like that, man. Pay is high, you take it."

Eames raised an eyebrow. Nothing was ever that simple.

"Who's the mark?"

"Guy named Dom Cobb."


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur and Ariadne were on a plane to New York. In the last week they had successfully finished the extraction job on the Ontarian mistress, collected the money from the politician in Detroit and arranged for a month long stay in New York City to relax, and sniff out new work. Also in the last week they had learned new things, in bits and pieces, about Saito's death.

The suicide had been confirmed, although based on several interviews with the company's higher ups, it seemed not everyone had written out foul play. The company's stocks had taken a very hard hit, more dramatic than the analysts had expected, and it was making Saito's death a fairly big deal in the financial world. Family and friends apparently couldn't understand; he hadn't mentioned his depression to any of them.

Ariadne felt guilty. She did not know why, but some part of her felt entirely responsible for Saito's suicide. And she still couldn't tell Arthur what she knew about it without betraying Cobb. As they sat together in the stuffy cabin she felt as though she couldn't sit still, and while Arthur slept dreamlessly she fiddled endlessly with her totem, staring out the window or at the real time map above displaying how far they were from JFK.

Suddenly a noise pierced the hushed air of the cabin: the sharp and stern ring of Arthur's cell phone. Ariadne glanced around nervously as the point man continued to sleep through the unbearable ruckus his pants were making. She slunk down in agonizing embarrassment as the phone rang three, four, five times before stopping. Relieved, she straightened up slightly, but before she could even relax her shoulders the phone began ringing again.

In desperation, she reached her hand awkwardly into Arthur's pants pocket and pulled out the phone, prepared to turn it off, until she saw who was calling.

"Eames?" She hissed into the phone urgently. "What is it?" She could feel the eyes of everyone in the cabin boring into her.

"Who's this?" Eames' familiar brogue crackled loudly through the receiver.

"It's Ariadne," she said, desperate to end the conversation. "We're on a plane right now, I really-"

"You're with Arthur?" He seemed to be yelling unnecessarily loudly. A stewardess was making her way down the aisle.

"Yes! What is it?"

"Where are you two headed, love?"

Ariadne couldn't take it. Crouched low, she inched out of her seat and crept to one of the vacant lavatories, closing the folded door with a snap. The noise in the bathroom was deafening, and she had to stick her finger in her open ear to hear Eames despite his shouting.

"We're going to New York, Eames," she said as loudly as she dared and with no small amount of frustration in her voice. "Why are you calling?"

"I need to meet up with Arthur," Eames replied. "And if you're with him well, all's the better I suppose."

"Why do you need to meet up?" She and Arthur hadn't seen Eames, or anyone else from the inception job since they had all landed in LA over a year ago. "Are you in trouble?"

"Not me, no," he said. "I appreciate your concern though dear. No, but there is trouble brewing and I think we may be the ones to stop it."

Ariadne clutched the phone to her head with both hands, trying desperately to hear though the connection was terrible and the noise from the plane drowned almost everything out.

"I'm going to meet you there in New York as soon as I can," Eames was shouting. "How long are you staying there?"

"A month, maybe more," she replied.

"Good, don't take any jobs until I get there. And Ariadne, dearest?"

"Yes?"

"I wouldn't ask this of anyone but you love, you're so kind; do you think you could wire some money? Only I haven't enough for a bus let alone a plane ticket."

Ariadne rolled her eyes, repositioning herself as she crouched on the toilet lid.

"Fine, but for your own sake I hope this trouble is worth our while."

"You'd best get off the phone now darling, it's terribly rude to talk on the plane." With that he hung up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Thanks for all the kind reviews, I hope you enjoy this next bit! Sorry if things are a little slow right now, I think they'll get more exciting soon c:

* * *

Ariadne decided not to tell Arthur about Eames' phone call until they were in a more private place. As he had slept most of the flight, she had had ample time to rehearse exactly how she was going to break the news to her partner; he would not be thrilled that they were financing Eames' visit, and perhaps even less thrilled that Eames was visiting at all. But the forger had not asked for money in the year since they had parted ways, and something in the serious tone of his voice as he had mentioned trouble made her believe him.

It was also a suspicious coincidence, Ariadne thought, that he had called in the same week as another of their former team members had died.

Arthur did not wake up until the plane landed in New York. He and Ariadne disembarked, gathered up their luggage and found a taxi to their rented studio relatively silently.

As they rattled up to the 8th floor of their new building, the small elevator groaning and clanging unsettlingly as it ascended, Ariadne finally spoke.

"So, guess who's coming to New York to visit us?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, glancing at Ariadne while barely moving his head.

"Eames!" she said with false cheeriness, plastering a sardonic grin on her face.

"What?" Arthur momentarily lost his usual composure, staring wide-eyed at Ariadne. "Why - when did you hear this?" He stammered.

The doors to the lift opened noisily and Ariadne yanked at her luggage.

"He called while you were sleeping on the plane." She decided to omit the financial bit for now; perhaps she could sneakily make her way to a Western Union tomorrow. "He has some news to share with us, apparently."

Arthur exited the elevator carrying his suitcases, a look of bewilderment and dread on his face. "What sort of news?"

They made their way down the bleak hallway, which was poorly lit and had dingy, faux-Victorian wallpaper peeling from it. There was the slightly acidic smell of urine.

"He didn't say, but it sounded important." She stopped outside their door and looked at Arthur with a slight frown. "Don't you miss any of them at all?"

Arthur seemed a little flustered at the question, but he responded in his usual business-like tone.

"Sure I do. Just not him."

He opened the door to their new abode with an antiquated key. He had managed to get for them a fairly large studio apartment on a three-month lease from some university students on summer vacation. The building was in a somewhat seedy area of Brooklyn, with a scenic view of the side of another building. But it had come well furnished with beds and kitchen appliances.

"Well I missed him," Ariadne said as she laid her suitcase alongside what would be her bed.

Arthur felt a snippet of jealousy slice at his stomach, but he ignored it.

"I suppose he wanted us to pay for his plane ticket here then?" He asked somewhat haughtily.

Ariadne looked at him with bewilderment. "How did you-?"

"I've known Eames much longer than you have," he said.

* * *

Eames lounged in a plush leather chair, trying to mimic casual relaxation while his heart was beating crazily against his ribcage. Shortly after his conversation with the kid in the café, whom he had given the slip easily, the forger had called some of his contacts and managed to get some details about the $3 million job. He had been given the phone number of a man named Tamamoto, who was apparently the financier. Shortly after he had arranged a meeting with the Japanese businessman in a strangely swank house in northern Johannesburg, though whose house it was Eames had no idea. He had been greeted by a burly thug in sunglasses, and had been led into the dimly lit living room where he sat presently.

He wasn't sure what was making him so nervous exactly. He was not a jumpy person usually, and it took quite a bit to shake him from his sometimes detrimentally good humor. But the words, "Guy named Dom Cobb," echoed through his thoughts and disturbed him profoundly. He was not stupid, though he lacked some traditional education; it hadn't taken him long to put two and two together and figure out which corporation was offering the job. But what he couldn't figure out was why Saito's company suspected Cobb at all. They had come back from limbo unharmed; nothing during the inception job should have led the CEO to off himself. Perhaps what was making him anxious was the worry that if they knew Cobb had been on the job, they would know he, Eames, had been there too.

And they didn't seem to like people who had been on the job.

He sipped at the pungent tea he had been offered and made a face, just as Tamamoto entered, flanked by three stooges and a young, rat-like assistant.

"Welcome, Mr. Porter," the businessman said in a deep, slightly accented voice. Eames, who had naturally given a fake name, leaned out of his chair clumsily to shake the man's hand.

"A pleasure," he said.

Tamamoto sat in the chair opposite Eames while his ensemble stood behind him. He was younger than Saito by a few years, short and thin with spiked black hair that somehow managed to look professional. He seemed to be of a different generation than Saito, and Eames suspected that Tamamoto's generation put less value on things like honor or integrity.

"So Mr. Porter, I have heard in town that you are a very skilled extractor," Eames shrugged modestly. Of course the people Tamamoto had heard of Porter from had all been expertly manipulated by Eames, who had forged an entirely new persona at record speed, in just two days.

"I assume you've heard the gist of the offer I am willing to make?"

"I have," Eames said. "But this Cobb fellow, anyone in my line of work has heard of him. He's the best extractor out there. How do you expect us to infiltrate the dreams of the man who practically invented the infiltration of dreams? He knows all the tricks."

"Well you'll have to make up some new ones then," Tamamoto smiled. "I assumed from your reputation that you are more than capable of this."

"'Course I am," Eames said. "But it'll take time. I need to know exactly when you're planning on getting this done." He hoped he wasn't being too obvious, that as soon as he knew precisely when Tamamoto was planning the strike he would warn Cobb, but the Tamamoto didn't seem to even hear him.

"I have also learned something else about you, Mr. Porter," the businessman leaned in closer, and Eames was suddenly aware that the three thugs had repositioned themselves behind him.

"That you go by some other names. No one can be blamed for that. But imagine my surprise when I found one of them was familiar?"

One of the goons placed his gorilla hands on Eames' shoulders, pushing down with all his considerable weight so that Eames could not move. He winced.

"Your associate here is getting a bit handsy, how do you say 'I don't swing that way,' in Japanese?"

"Mr. Eames," Tamamoto said, and Eames' stomach dropped miserably. "I don't know why you came here today, but I could not be more delighted. If you truly were looking for the job, then congratulations: you have it. I imagine your presence in Cobb's dream would arouse no suspicions, and I'm sure you know a few tricks of his."

Eames struggled against the massive bulk of the crony, but suddenly his arms were pinned behind his back and he was forced to sit still.

"I won't do it," he said, his voice sounding harsher than usual.

"You will if you value your life, Mr. Eames. Oh, and allow me to introduce you to your first team member," he smiled, and from the other room came the wiry man from the café, looking supremely smug.

"He was so eager to work with you, he told me about you himself."

"Oh fuck you, kid," Eames said in whiny exasperation.

"I'll see you tomorrow to discuss the finer points of the job, Mr. Eames," Tamamoto said, and with that Eames was hauled up by two goons and dragged out of the living room, trying all the way to figure out how he was going to escape.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **I hope everything in the plot is clear / the continuity is ok. It's hard making sure things translate! Christopher Nolan is a god among men for making Inception make as much sense as it did.

I would love it if you reviewed! I'd love to hear your feedback C: Tell me if you want less Eames and more hot awkward Arthur/Ariadne non-lovin'!

* * *

New York City was plunging into the sweltering dampness of summer, which was Arthur's least favorite season. He and Ariadne had avoided leaving the apartment as much as possible during the heat wave which was engulfing the metropolis, but today one of them had to brave the outside world and Arthur, being a true gentleman, had bitten the bullet. Of course he wouldn't be caught dead in shorts and a t-shirt, but one thing he loved about New York was that even on a day like today, which spurred mobs of grubby children to hijack fire hydrants and release jets of icy water into the streets, he was not the only person in a suit.

Arthur returned to the chilled relief of the apartment, drenched in sweat and grumpy. The studio smelled like air conditioner coolant.

"He hasn't picked it up yet," Arthur said, walking briskly to the bathroom to wash his face.

"Really?" Ariadne was sitting right in front of the AC vent on a bean-bag chair which had belonged to one of the college kids they were renting from. Her hair whipped around her face and she had to yell over the noise of the machine. "It's been what, four days now? That's strange."

Arthur emerged from the bathroom with the wet towel around his neck.

"It's very strange. I have never known Eames to delay in retrieving free money. And he hasn't been picking up his phone either."

Ariadne looked up at the point man, and he was momentarily distracted from the matter at hand by her very pretty face.

"What do you think we should do?" She asked.

Arthur sighed, trying to think. He wished he could just call Cobb and ask him what to do, but of course that was impossible. Since the inception job, Cobb had been very clear: he wanted nothing to do with the criminal life anymore. He had strongly urged every member of the team to get out of the business as well, but for them there was much less incentive. Sadly, he had said his final goodbyes to the team a year ago before changing his address, phone number, maybe even his name. And even though Arthur could most likely find his former partner somehow (he was good at his job after all), he knew Cobb did not want to be found.

"I guess we'll have to wait a few more days," he said at last, not meeting Ariadne's expectant gaze. "If he hasn't picked up the money by then, well…we'll look into it."

* * *

In a dingy pub in foggy North England sat a stout, weathered farmer, aged beyond his years by hard labor and alcohol, staring into his drink with purposeful ferocity. He did not like the looks of the men in suits who had just entered the pub, who were now striding through the room, being careful not to step in the frequent puddles of vomit or urine. Men in such nice outfits did not belong in a pit such as this. And the patrons of the bar knew it; they glared over at the swank gentlemen looking ready to start a fight.

One of the more inebriated ones stumbled over to the first well-dressed man, poking his finger into the man's chest. The man brushed the drunk aside, but immediately two more leapt up, ready for the brawl. Before it could get ugly however, the well-dressed man pulled a gun and pointed it directly at the farmer.

"Is this the best you could think of Eames?" He said quietly. He blinked, and the stout farmer had instantaneously changed in to the hunched figure of his captive. Eames stumbled off of the barstool, his hands up in the face of the pistol. He had been trying to lose Tamamoto and his goons in various dreamscapes for hours it seemed, but somehow they always found him. He was exhausted, and he was getting sloppy, he knew. He sported a nasty looking bruise on his left cheek from where a crony had pistol-whipped him earlier, in another world, and several of his ribs were broken from a nasty tumble down the stairs he had taken trying to evade them.

He wanted to wake up.

But they had him under a sedative and they would not let him. They were forcing him to design dreams which they could use to infiltrate Cobb, and until he made one that satisfied them, they would not let him wake.

Even Eames' projections seemed beaten down; they cowered from the gun uncharacteristically, going back to their drinks in a melancholy gloom.

"You're right," Eames said, trying valiantly to maintain his smug grin. "This is shit, isn't it? Don't know where my touch has gone. Though they do have all my brands," He gestured to the bar.

"Stop fucking around with the disguises," Tamamoto said venomously. "And make us a goddamn dream for Cobb, or-"

"What?" Eames interrupted belligerently. "You'll shoot me into limbo and lose the only contact you have with your mark? Brilliant plan, mate,"

Tamamoto fired the gun into Eames' foot. The forger let out a howl of pain, crumpling to the ground instantly.

"I'd hate for you to think I am not serious, Mr. Eames," Tamamoto said, reloading his pistol with an ominous click. "You seem to have a problem in that department, but I hope I've cleared things up."

Eames was clutching his leg to his chest, willing his vision to return to normal as it had faded to black when the bullet hit him.

"Look," Eames said through gritted teeth. "If you want this done right, shooting me is not going to help. Wake me up, give me a fucking night's rest for fuck's sake, and I'll get designing fresh as a spring daisy tomorrow morning."

"How can I know that," Tamamoto asked with a hint of frustration. "This game of cat and mouse we've been playing all day has not amused me. I will need some form of assurance that you will be more constructive tomorrow."

That was when Eames got a brilliant idea.

"I can't take it!" he yelled in fake anguish, as very well-rehearsed tears began welling up in his eyes.

"Tell you what," Eames leaned forward dramatically, feigning a pained expression. "I tell you now where my most precious, prized possession is. And if I don't deliver tomorrow, then you can go and take it. I swear to you that I will not be able to do without it."

"What is this possession?" The businessman asked skeptically.

"You ever hear of a totem, pet?"

"Refresh my memory."

Eames had to stop himself from grinning. Putting on a mask of anguish, he forced his voice to sound choppy and tortured. "It's the personal, physical token that every extractor has with them on the job. I haven't got mine at the moment; obviously I wasn't really expecting to be dreaming. But if you take away my totem, well frankly I'd be out of a job. You can't really expect to be a proper extractor without one. And besides all that, it has certain sentimental value that I'd be unwilling to part with.

"All in all, I would much rather design you a stupid dream than lose my totem, so there you are. That's how you'll know."

It was a stunning performance on his part, and he would have to congratulate himself when he got out of this situation with first class tickets to New York, funded by a certain point man and his lovely lass.

"Fine," Tamamoto said shortly. "You tell me where it is, I send some men to fetch it. If it's not there as you describe it, we'll have to negotiate some other terms."

"Right-o," Eames said. "But you'll have to give it back to me once I do design the dream for you. It's very important."

"Of course," Tamamoto smiled slyly.

Eames went about describing the location of a certain playing card, an Ace of Diamonds to be precise, which he had hidden under a loose tile in the men's room of that same Johannesburg café that had gotten him into this situation.

"Alright Mr. Eames, I will send someone to fetch it. And now we wake up." Holding the gun to his own head, Tamamoto fired, his cronies doing the same. Eames watched as their bodies fell limply to the floor, wishing it were real. Soon after he felt the kick and disappeared from the grungy pub which had still been so much nicer than the waking world. He awoke alone in a small room, the IV having been removed from his wrist seconds before. Looking around to make sure no one saw him, he carefully withdrew his poker chip totem and flipped it. Black. This was no dream.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **I almost wrote Arthur's Note, no lie. Anyway thanks everyone for the very kind reviews and support! This is probably the last all-Eames-all-the-time chapter, for a while at least!

* * *

The card was exactly where he had said, Eames knew this.

It was dark and he was lying on the makeshift cot Tamamoto had provided him in the small closet which served as his cell. He had not heard a sound from the other rooms in over an hour, and it was time for him to make his dramatic escape.

There was no window in the closet, obviously, but there were several tools which his captors had foolishly left behind, the best being a coat hanger. It had been tucked back in a corner, difficult to see, but thankfully a thin metal one.

Eames snapped it gruffly, and managed to file it down into a sharp point with the heel of his shoe. He had started his career as a lock picker, a talented and misguided youth. Slowly, with precision Eames managed to undo the various tumbles, thanking with all his being the antiquity of South African locks.

The door swung open, but he grabbed at the handle quickly before the hinges could squeak. With much lighter steps than he looked capable of, Eames crept through the hall, pausing without breath whenever he heard the slightest sound.

At the end of the hallway, Eames peered around the corner to see the living room, where one of the large stooges was standing still, his back to Eames. The front door was located at the other end of the living room, to the left of the stooge, and it would be painfully obvious if Eames tried to get out that way. He would have to pull a classic groom-on-wedding-day move and sneak out the bathroom window.

He crept into the first floor bathroom, to the right of the bedroom his closet had been in, closing the door just enough to hide him in the semi-darkness. If the door was entirely closed they would know someone had come by. Trying very hard not to clink the porcelain, Eames crept on top of the toilet, opening the window silently. A breeze came by, and to Eames' horror it caused an empty toilet paper roll to clatter to the floor.

Realistically it had made very little sound, but to Eames it felt as though he had just screamed bloody Mary. He was frozen, one leg on the toilet tank and the other rooted to the floor, waiting with baited breath for the slightest hint of movement in the other room.

No sound came.

Exhaling with silent relief, Eames continued his treacherous climb up the toilet, eyeing the narrow window above, wishing for once that he were built like Arthur. It would be a tight fit.

He realized as he stuck his head out the window that his shoulders would not fit straight on. He would have to pivot, but his legs would not fit in a couching position, and the window was not tall enough for him to stand. The solution was to stick one leg out the window first, then straddle the sill very painfully while he got his head and torso out. Once he had gotten to this position, he realized he had no way of getting his other leg out, as the one outside the window could not reach the ground below and there was nothing to stand on or hold on to. The only way to leave was to throw himself sideways onto the ground and hope his trapped leg would follow quietly.

He fell about eight feet to the soft earth outside, making an insufferable ruckus. Inside the house, he thought he heard raised voices, but he did not wait around to listen. Though his body ached with the impact and he felt as though his ankle was twisted, he took off with surprising speed into the dark streets of Johannesburg.

* * *

Thirteen hours later, Eames was in the airport waiting for his plane to New York City. He was pleasantly surprised that he had not yet been found by Tamamoto's gang and hog tied in the back of a limo. He had waited outside the Western Union for five hours for it to open, starting at every sound in the night, but ultimately retrieving his five hundred dollars unscathed. He had immediately rushed to the airport via taxi, and bought the first plane ticket to the big apple, which unfortunately was not first class.

His cell phone had been taken by Tamamoto, but luckily he had erased Cobb's number from it long ago, acquiescing to his former partner's request. He was further comforted by the fact that no real names were in his contact list, but instead nicknames which he found hilarious. Arthur for instance was Rod U. Pass.

With a payphone, Eames called Mr. Pass presently.

"Hello?" Arthur's voice sounded groggy; if Eames had been any good at math he would have realized he was calling the point man at 2am his time.

"Arthur, darling!" Eames said cheerily. "I just wanted to thank you for the generous loan, and inform you that I will be leaving South Africa in about an hour."

"Eames?" Arthur yelled in surprise. The forger thought he heard Ariadne mumble in the background.

"Not interrupting you two am I?" He asked cheekily.

"What? No!" Arthur said hastily. "Where the hell have you been? It's been five days since we sent the money!"

"Has it?" Eames hadn't really had a good grasp on time while he was holed up in Tamamoto's villa. "Goodness, I am sorry dear. I have good news and bad news for you though, but I'm afraid it will have to wait till we can talk in person."

"You know, mystique doesn't suit you, Eames," Arthur said grumpily.

"Mystique is part of the business, love," Eames replied jauntily. "And speaking of the business of love, you and Ariadne-"

Arthur hung up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **Ok it's a little slow, sorry :/ It might be a little slow for a little while. I am terrible at writing fast-paced action! Anyway, thanks so much for the lovely reviews, and enjoy!

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Arthur hung up his cell phone, glad for the darkness that obscured his blush. Ariadne was sitting up in the bed next to his, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face just barely visible by the city lights through the window.

"Is he ok?" She asked urgently.

"He's fine," Arthur said shortly. "He's on his way over." Feeling grumpy, Arthur tucked himself back into bed, muttering, "And he better find his own damn place to stay."

Ariadne didn't seem to have heard him, and with his head buried in his pillow he heard her get up and go to the bathroom. A voice in his head that sounded frustratingly like Eames' said, "She really thinks you're an asshole mate," and then laughed. Arthur had a sudden, dreadful vision of his next job, all his projections in the image of the forger, laughing at him. He buried deeper into his bedspread and tried to ignore the sounds of Ariadne washing her hands, climbing back into bed, her soft breathing.

Morning came very quickly. Arthur woke up to a car alarm blaring on their street, but his rude entry into the waking world was greeting also with the wafting scent of coffee being brewed. He opened his eyes, staring forward as rested on his side, his eyes falling on the small kitchen.

Ariadne was preparing breakfast, her hair up in a sloppy bun, wearing a red lacy camisole. Arthur swallowed hard and took a moment to regain his signature cool before alerting his housemate to his waking.

"Morning," he said, his voice cracking just a little. She looked up from the stovetop and smiled at him.

"Morning!" Her voice was much more chipper. "Eggs?"

"Sure," he said, stumbling to a standing position. He slept in blue boxers and a white t-shirt without design. Ariadne, he knew, switched up the tops but always wore the same Thunder Cats boxers to bed. The two had been sharing bedrooms for a year now, though never a bed, he thought with a bit of resentment. She seemed impervious to his various hints, suggestions and whatever amount of charm he supposed he had. She always acted like a good friend.

"I hoped the alarm wouldn't wake you," she said, frowning at the window. "I went down to the deli to get some bacon and I wanted to see if boys really do wake up to that smell." She shrugged, pushing the eggs around in the pan.

"You shouldn't believe everything Burger King commercials tell you," Arthur said with a smirk, sitting on the stool at the kitchen island.

Ariadne froze in her cooking, giving Arthur a very serious look.

"Are you telling me that $1.59 for a double cheeseburger is _not_ an amazing deal?"

"How you even know those details when we haven't had a TV for three weeks…baffles me," Arthur said, and he rested his head on his hand trying not to stare at her.

"I like to keep up with current events, so sue me," she said, a smile breaking her false seriousness. Having finished the eggs she served them up onto a plate and placed the dish along with a fresh cup of coffee in front of Arthur. The eggs were over easy, his favorite kind. He felt a little tug at his stomach, as if the fact that she knew what he liked for breakfast were the most romantic thing in the world.

She sat down next to him with her own eggs (scrambled, he knew without having to look), and the two of them ate in silence for a while.

"Speaking of current events," she said quietly, "Saito's funeral is today. In Hiroshima, where he was born."

Arthur didn't know what to say, so he just kept eating. The whole Saito affair, while very sad for his loved ones of course, had Arthur totally unaffected. Sure the businessman had accompanied them on their job, but Arthur couldn't remember having a conversation lasting more than five minutes with him, and as far as he had seen, Ariadne hadn't talked to him much either. Yet she was strangely torn up about his death. As far as he knew things like that happened not infrequently in the Japanese business world; Saito had probably made a poor investment and decided to end it all rather than face the shame of bankruptcy.

And as long as Arthur's ties to Saito were never discovered, the point man felt very indifferent to the death. He swallowed hard, thinking. The sound of a plane roared overhead, and Arthur suddenly felt a thrill of dread, hoping that whatever trouble Eames had mentioned did not have to do with Saito's demise. How could he have glazed over that strange coincidence?

Ariadne seemed to be thinking as well, and the two of them finished their breakfasts in an unsettling silence.

"Do you think it was murder?" Ariadne said suddenly, as she stood holding her empty plate ready for the sink.

"What?" Arthur knew what she was talking about, but the question had taken him off guard.

"Do you think Saito's suicide was actually…murder?" She asked again.

He paused.

"I…Maybe. It's definitely possible. I mean, he didn't seem very suicidal when we knew him. Then again he didn't seem to show much of any emotion. And things like that happen all the time in the corporate world."

He frowned because Ariadne looked almost relieved. She wasn't smiling, but something in her face seemed mollified, and she set about washing her dish.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **Whoa! Eames sure is a chatty Cathy. Please excuse him.

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Ariadne hated keeping secrets. Well, she hated keeping other peoples' secrets. By nature she was a very curious person who loved to talk and share; not that she considered herself a gossip, but she knew the value of the very natural human practice of exchanging information. Cobb's secret, one that probably even he didn't know, that he had been responsible for Saito's suicide, was eating at her like a parasite.

She tried her best to convince herself that Saito's death had in fact been murder. Cobb wasn't to blame, but just another anonymous scumbag that all major companies seemed to deal with. Honestly she had never been paranoid until finding out about extraction.

She and Arthur had done a whole lot of nothing in New York since arriving, and today was no different as they waited for Eames' plane to arrive. Arthur worked on his laptop doing god knew what, while Ariadne tried to distract her troubled thoughts by reading a Steig Larson book. Finally, just before 6pm, came a call on Arthur's cell phone.

"Arthur, darling!" Eames said jovially. "I'm here at Penn Station, and I was wondering if you might want to meet here? Did you know they have a Krispey Kreme?"

"Fine, we'll be there in twenty minutes," Arthur said, rolling his eyes.

"Do hurry dear, the smell is killing me!"

"Breath deep then, Eames!" Arthur said and hung up the phone. Ariadne was giving him a strange look.

"He's at Penn Station," Arthur said, trying to sound casual. "I was making a joke," he added, slightly embarrassed.

**At Penn Station**

The bustle of thousands of impatient travelers filled Pennsylvania Station with a welcome noise. Arthur loved big crowds, how they worked in unconscious unity to hide him, how without instruction they did exactly what he wanted. He and Ariadne dove through the throngs searching for a familiar face, which Arthur had guessed would be by the donut shop. Sure enough, as they approached the Krispey Kreme and the smell wafted towards them they saw a figure leaning against the wall whom they recognized at once.

Eames hadn't changed much in the year since they'd seen him, Arthur thought as he made his way to the forger. He still had the stubble, his hair was similar, although he looked perhaps more haggard than the Eames who had left LAX so long ago.

Eames had been people-watching and waved pleasantly when the people he was watching finally ceased to be strangers.

"Hello loves!" He said, giving Ariadne a kiss on the cheek and starting to do the same to Arthur before he pulled back. "Thanks for meeting me! Fancy a donut? I don't think I can take this any longer," he gestured at the glass behind him which displayed a machine cranking out greasy donuts at an astonishing rate. "I've been drooling like Pavlov."

"Pavlov's dog," Ariadne corrected him.

"What about it?" Eames asked without much interest. "Nevermind, anyway I have genuinely shocking news that as of yet, we have some power over," his tone suddenly serious, he pulled out his phone and inspected it while they headed towards the cue.

"Yes, I'll have a dozen, half glazed, three crème filled and three with the little sprinkles," Eames said to the cashier, and then turned to Arthur.

"I've got no money to speak of, love," he said with a smile.

Arthur knew he should have expected it. He handed over eight dollars, and Eames patted him on the back affably, saying "I'll share of course!"

They took the box of pastries out of the station, walking to a less populated area before Eames launched into his story.

He explained about Tamamoto, the extraction job he had out on Cobb, the three million dollars. Ariadne looked ill at the information, while Arthur had an expression of grim determination.

"It's absurd that they think Cobb has anything to do with it," Eames concluded, while Ariadne bit her lip. "But these people are not reasonable. Nor very bright, I'd wager," he grinned suddenly, and Arthur knew he wanted to be asked.

"Why do you say that, Eames," he said in a bored tone.

"Well you see that 'totem' I let them have, the playing card? It's, obviously, not a totem at all, but a um…technique I sometimes employ while playing poker. It's got a tracking device in it." He popped a donut in his mouth, barely able to contain it within his great smile.

"So we know where they are, how is that going to help us stop it?" Ariadne asked.

"I rather expected more of a, 'Gosh Eames aren't you clever for planting a tracking device on them so sneakily, and all off the top of your head as well! Good show!'" Eames said indignantly, spraying crumbs as he spoke.

"Yes, all that," Ariadne said, giving him a somewhat patronizing pat on the arm, "But what's the plan? How are we going to stop them from getting into Cobb's dream?"

"Well, frankly I thought perhaps we wouldn't," Eames said.

"Great plan!" Arthur said sarcastically.

"_Because_," Eames continued. "We are absolute little insignificant buggers up against Tamamoto and his mates in the real world. But in the dream world, and especially in the dream world of our dear friend Cobb, we have a serious upper hand."

They had reached the West Village now, and the crowds were increasing.

"We wait until they enter Cobb's dream, then go in after them and stop them from ever reaching his secrets, not that they'll find anything, but a man deserves his privacy," Eames said, and for some reason he glanced at Ariadne and gave her a significant look, as though daring her to spill her secret. But he couldn't know, she thought worriedly.

"When do you think they'll try to get to Cobb?" Arthur asked, unable to object to Eames' plan, as much as he hoped to.

"Well they'll need time to gather information on him, though most likely all that was done by the time they found me. But they'll need a new extractor. I'd say within the week they'll be on their way. According to my lovely totem," he held up his cell phone, which displayed a map of the globe and a red dot blinking in Japan," They've gone back to headquarters."

"Why are they keeping it with them?" Ariadne asked, peering at the cell phone screen.

"I suspect so they can convince Cobb either that they've killed me, or they are me," he said smiling. "Unskilled forgers need to resort to little gimmicks like that."

"Once we've gotten them out of Cobb's dream though, they'll just wake up and actually kill us," Arthur said.

"Well, we'll need a man on the outside to make sure that doesn't happen. Someone to tie them up and make sure they behave."

"Yusuf?" Ariadne asked.

"I was actually hoping we could employ that lovely air hostess again, but perhaps your suggestion is more practical," Eames said.

Suddenly, a bleep from Eames' cell phone prompted him to examine the screen again.

"Our friends are on the move already," he said, trying to keep the alarm from his voice. "Looks like we've got to time for practice runs on this one,"

Without hesitation, Arthur flagged down a taxi and the three of them were headed to LA, where Yusuf now worked and where Cobb's mind would soon be invaded.


	9. Annoying Author's Note

**Annoying Author's Note**

Hey everyone! Wow I am blown away by your guys' support of this crazy story, I'm SO SORRY I haven't updated in forever. School and work have been EXHAUSTING lately and I am always tired and find no time to do fun things like this.

Another complication is that I have this whole story planned out (and there are some CRAZY TWISTS later on) BUT it's written in a notebook which I left at home, and I am currently at college, and far from home. I have tried to remember exactly what is supposed to happen, but I would feel like I was cheating you of a much better version if I went by that. So what I am thinking is that...I return home in a couple months. That is a LONG ASS TIME I know, but when I get back I will get this notebook, and I will write the CRAP out of this story. In the meantime I'm hoping to write a few drabbles or flashbacks or something to keep it interesting.

What do you guys think? Is two months too long to wait? Is this story even worth it?

Thanks again for your support and reviews!

With love,

LemonIcee


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